Beacon Poem by Amy Serhienko

I’m teetering –
on the brink,
poised to fall or fail.

You call to me,
soothing,
your voice a promise.

Hand outstretched,
reaching,
I weave toward the sound.

It guides me,
patient, calm,
a beacon in my fog.

It warms me,
expanding,
warding off the cold.

It fills my head,
tingling,
stirring all my senses.

The numbness abates.
The fog lifts.

I turn back from the edge,
and into your arms,
and know that I’m safe.